The Sherlock Club
by belana-rus
Summary: we can't say "Scotland Yard is one big happy family" and keep our dignity intact. Instead, Lestrade will have to do it, driven by an irrepressible urge to enlighten a fellow human.


**Title**: **The Sherlock Club**  
><strong>Written by<strong> **copannan** & **Lady Ninka**  
><strong>Translated by<strong> belana  
><strong>Beta<strong>: Eli  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: everything belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle & BBC

* * *

><p>"We've discussed the matter with the crowd," Lestrade said solemnly, "and we think it's time for you to become a member of the Sherlock Club."<p>

John threw a sidelong glance at Lestrade. The man's manner implied that the folks from Scotland Yard gathered at night much like a Masonic lodge and discussed the fate of Great Britain, no less.

"I'll explain everything in a minute," Lestrade said and leaned his elbow on the bar counter. "By the way, have a drink."

"No, thank you," the doctor refused.

"As you wish. So, I'd like to welcome you to the Sherlock Club. Since you've already paid your membership fee, as it were."

"How do you mean?"

Lestrade cocked his hand as if holding a gun, took aim and shot the barman. The man didn't even blink.

"You have a weird idea of a serious conversation," John said guardedly.

"Cut it out, Watson." Lestrade caught the attention of the unflappable barman. "If you look at me any more innocently, the skin on your forehead will burst."

John crossed his arms over his chest.

"What are you talking about?"

"Two pints," Lestrade said. "The cab driver."

"I d…" the doctor protested, then his head caught up with his tongue and he finished, "don't get your meaning…"

"Relax." The inspector made a placating gesture. "I have no proof."

"Proof of what?" the doctor tried again. The inspector looked at him fixedly and, with his right hand, shot the barman again.

"But I have a gut feeling," he added confidingly.

Watson helplessly looked around.

"Where is my pint?" he asked.

"Now you'll have to wait. I shot the barman. And don't be so tense, I'm just kidding."

"About what?" John asked with secret hope. Lestrade sighed darkly.

"Oh, stop it, for God's sake. Everyone at Scotland Yard knows that you are the most dangerous graphomaniac in all London because you are as likely to use your gun, as kind words."

John felt uncomfortable.

"Listen," he said, "I've got to go."

"You aren't going anywhere until I give you the safety instructions," the inspector stated calmly. "Doctor, I realize that a conspiracy bomb has just gone off in your head, but you should try to relax - drink some beer. When they serve you. Now, you don't really think that after a week of painful doubts I finally decided to trust my vague hunches and deliver you to the hands of justice, do you? Anyways, I wouldn't apprehend you in front of the regulars of my favorite pub and that inconspicuous security camera."

John's gaze followed the Lestrade's finger.

"I don't see anything," he said.

"Neither do I. It's my gut talking again. So, about Sherlock. Until recently the police wouldn't give him the time of day."

"I've never heard you raving about him before."

"Ha-ha! Joking, huh? I'm glad you've snapped out of it. Yes, but nowadays we aren't, as you say, raving about him for a different reason. Did the guys tell you that story when Sherlock stole a corpse from the morgue because he didn't have clearance to examine the body officially?"

"No. But somehow I'm not surprised."

"Having no place to keep the body, he was soon caught. The corpse started to decompose."

"Oh, God."

"You see, a refrigerator wasn't big enough in that case."

"This is so disgusting."

"He was out of the rented apartment in three minutes flat."

"I can easily believe that. What's your point?"

"Just reminiscing." The inspector laughed. "Wait a moment, I'm going to raise hell." He stood up.

While Lestrade was shouting over the loud voices, begging the twice murdered barman to bring the order, the doctor turned around and squinted in a vain attempt to see the camera.

"So," Lestrade returned to his seat. "Some time ago I... Anyway, it took much effort – and not only on my part – to convince folks at the Yard that Sherlock Holmes's help was valuable enough to swallow our pride."

He became thoughtful.

"At first, though, I was the one to be convinced. But!" He raised a finger. "But it took a long time to find a team that could work cases with Sherlock."

"You'd need a squad of deaf and mute saints," John grumbled. "I don't think such people work in the police force."

"Think again."

"Are you saying I simply never met them?"

Lestrade looked at him with silent reproach.

"Donovan," he stuck one finger out, "Anderson, Hooper. Mrs. Hudson – she is always looking after him. And finally, you."

The barman put two pints in front of them, and the doctor took a sip right away.

"Me," he repeated.

"You," the inspector acknowledged. "Would you mind if I call you John?"

"From the very beginning I have this feeling that you're trying to recruit me into a sect of sorts."

"You're right, in a way. Now, listen, to hell with the formalities."

"If you say so. What are you talking about?"

Lestrade became thoughtful and silent. Then he looked around, paying much attention to the suspicious corner.

"There is formal logic, right?" He tapped his forehead. "And there is common sense."

Then he became thoughtful again.

"I mean," he started over, "there is an accepted way of... doing..."

"Things?" the doctor supplied. The inspector looked at the ceiling with a pained expression.

"Yes," he said, "a way of doing things."

Then he fell silent again and didn't start speaking until he finished his beer.

"You see, John, 'It's not done' doesn't mean 'It's not right'. That's all I'm saying."

"I still don't understand."

"Yes, you do." Lestrade swung one leg over another. "For example, it's not done to kill unfamiliar cabbies in our society. And if you say '_What does that have to do with me?_' I'll arrest you for a nerve-wrecking false testimony!"

The doctor shut his mouth.

"That's better. Had I known that I'd have to talk to you about all this, I'd have never quit smoking. So. As you know, Sherlock is not the most normal person in the world."

John laughed politely.

"But at the same time he's not the worst one," Lestrade admitted reluctantly. "Don't tell him I said that."

"He wouldn't appreciate it anyway."

"Right. You see," Lestrade started to pinch his brow, "many people can... how to say it..." He slammed his hand on the table. "You can spend your whole life sitting in a cardboard office. All your life, you can do nothing, but be proper. Wash your face and shave every morning. Make your bed. And do nothing really useful in your goddamned cardboard life! This... this is socially acceptable."

Under Lestrade's intense gaze John nodded tentatively.

"On the other hand, a genius extraordinaire who wears pants on his head would be called a nutter and locked up. And these cardboard cripples would take his place. Same cost, less trouble."

The inspector turned to John.

"But I think," Lestrade said with emphasis, "that people are worth the trouble. It pays off. Do you understand?"

Out of politeness John nodded again.

"I think that sometimes a person deserves a second chance. And then maybe, a second and a third second chance. It's right to let a person on a team, all the troubles notwithstanding. After all, it often turns out that all the nutters simply neutralize each other."

"This must be a hint," Watson said warily.

"Of course it is. Mrs. Hudson says that he sleeps at home more often now. How do you keep him there?"

"Oh, not you too," John frowned. Inspector guffawed.

"All in all, now you are aware of the Club's main purpose."

John assumed a bewildered look.

"Now our main rule: never show surprise."

The doctor frowned.

"I think I've lost track of the conversation."

"Mrs. Hudson sent her husband to the gallows."

"I know, Sherlock told me…"

"And she taught Holmes to smoke pot. That day at Scotland Yard we almost cracked our brains trying to understand what was going on with him."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mm-hmm. I still have a couple of texts Holmes sent that day… I can show you. And we learned then that one of his… er… relatives… is published under a pen name."

"A relative?"

"Well, yes. He writes… er… detective stories. Stories of … with certain… so to say… overtones…"

"Hold on," John's hands shot up. "That… relative?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Then I don't want to know about it."

"Fair enough."

"Sherlock, well… His uncle is a writer. His nephew is a writer. His mother is a writer. No wonder that another Sherlock's relative likes detective plots. It's a completely uninteresting fact, no mystery at all."

Lestrade nodded.

"You are priceless," he said. "Absolutely priceless. If everyone were so adequate and diplomatic when dealing with whimsies of others…"

John glanced into his empty glass.

"If there was a tolerance ranking for your crowd," he snickered, "Donovan and Anderson would be at the very bottom. No, they'd demand to be crossed out of that list."

"With Donovan," Lestrade winced, "it's a quirk. She is too sensitive to deviations from norm."

"Meaning?"

"She doesn't like when things happening around her are weirder than the ones in her head."

Watson was surprised. Lestrade raised an eyebrow meaningfully:

"Donovan has a tattoo _England and St. George are with us_".

John looked at the inspector intently.

"I'm not joking," Lestrade assured him.

"Where is it?"

"Well," Lestrade made a vague gesture. "On her body, England is stuck exactly there where I hope it will never be metaphorically. And she was issued a citation for sexual harassment."

"Donovan?" asked the doctor again.

"More than once. So for the record, I've warned you,'' the inspector winked. "Plus she is a bitch of epic proportions, but you've probably figured it out yourself."

"You bet," John shivered. Then he couldn't help himself and asked, "How can a woman get a citation… for…"

"Ask Anderson."

"Ande…" John flinched. Then he dropped his head on his arms and laughed, "Oh my God."

"Wait, you've not heard the half of it. Do you know Molly Hooper?"

"From the morgue?"

"Yes, the one who's making eyes at our favorite psychopath."

"Sure, I know her. But she looks quite… Well, apart from the fact that she still hopes that her feeling can be mutual, she's alright. I think. Or," Watson couldn't refrain from sarcasm, "are you saying there is an exotic tattoo on her bum, too?"

"What?" Inspector was surprised. "No, Molly doesn't have any tattoos," he said. Before the doctor could digest this information, Lestrade added, "She's a taxidermist."

"And she works in the morgue," John stated tentatively.

"Yes, and she works in the morgue," the inspector agreed. "Here is another one, so you could fully appreciate it. I've learned recently that she stuffs her trophies. She is a hunter and a great shot at that."

Pale, sweet Molly acquired a sinister aura in John's imagination.

"Her father has his own stables. Somewhere. Everyone tries to be friendly with her, but if possible, not friendly enough for her to show the Collection. It's tricky."

"Thank you for the advice."

"If I were Sherlock Holmes himself I'd still try to be very nice with her."

"God, who'd have thought. She seemed such a sweet girl."

"I'm telling you – everyone is like that here."

John became thoughtful.

"What about Anderson?" he asked.

Now it was Lestrade's turn to think.

"Anderson dances salsa," he said after a moment's pause. John blinked, trying to ban the picture that was unfolding in his mind.

"You've just made that up," he sounded solemn.

"Mm-hmm," Lestrade agreed. "Ok, he's normal. But he sleeps with Donovan."

"Everyone knows that, thanks to Sherlock."

"Yes," the inspector agreed again. "Now you can try to imagine that."

About thirty seconds later Lestrade could appreciate all the nuances of expressions on John's face who was imagining the details of that unnatural intercourse. Then the inspector patted Watson on the shoulder.

"You'll get used to it. I did."

The doctor massaged his temples.

"Well, you know…" he began, but fell silent again.

"What?" asked Lestrade benevolently.

"Well, tattoos, dead husbands, stuffed animals..." Watson listed. "A passionate relationship with a patriotic bitch, finally, Sherlock Holmes himself..."

"So what?"

"What is your quirk?"

Lestrade swung one leg over the other.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what's wrong with you?"

The inspector chuckled.

"Ha-ha! Nothing."

They sat in silence for about half a minute; then both their phones beeped. Lestrade and Watson read the texts at the same time.

_"It's a lie. SH,"_ John read.

"Never mind him," Lestrade said after reading his message.

The doctor nodded. The next message read: _"Will tell you at home. SH"_.

"Whatever he tells you…" the inspector jabbed his finger at John.

"Sure."

"Don't believe a single word."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Not a word!"


End file.
